Destructive
by senor failboat
Summary: It's always the same . . . but Kyle doesn't care. Really. Stan X Kyle.


Destructive

Summary: It's always the same . . . but Kyle doesn't care. Really. Stan X Kyle.  
Rating: K+  
Genre: Angst/Romance  
Pairing: StanKyle . . . Style!  
Author's Notes: Although I think Stan actually looks somewhat cute when he goes goth in the episode "Raisins," I don't think he would go goth every time Wendy dumped him in the future (which we all know is likely). But, this situation really isn't very plausible either. I just like it, because I'm stupid. Anyway, they're like . . . sixteen in this, I think. Yes, sixteen sounds about right.

* * *

This has to be about the millionth time it's happened, Kyle realizes. Someday, he should really do something to stop it. Because it's probably a bad idea. In fact, he knows it's a bad idea. 

Making out in a dark, empty hallway in your house with your best friend, after he gets dumped, _again_, by his girlfriend, is definitely written on a list somewhere titled "Things You Should Not Ever Do, Ever." Maybe he should go find that list, print a copy, and tack it onto his bedroom wall. Or, better yet, he should make multiple copies of it to put in his bedroom, bathroom, notebooks, binders, locker; he can even get the list tattooed to the back of his arm.

Because he knows that it will probably be far, far too difficult for him to remember that list when he's in this situation in the future. After all, who can be bothered to remember such trivial things as a list when the person they love - the person they dream of night, after night, after cruel, painful night - is holding them like this? When that person is kissing them, touching them, muttering their name over and over again like a mantra, or a prayer; or how Kyle always remembers it afterward, like an oath, a curse, a filthy swear word?

Kyle can't. Not when Stan's hands are roaming all over his body, groping and prodding like it's something he has to memorize; not when Stan is murmuring his name into his ear, lips brushing faintly against the sensitive skin; not when those same lips are touching every single inch of skin they can get to.

He's hoping that, one day, he'll have the strength to say, "No, stop it, I hate this, it won't work." But right now, he can't. Because he knows that he'll slip up and say something stupid, and cheesy, and queer, like, "I can't keep doing this, knowing that I love you, but you don't love me back." It wouldn't go down well at all, he's sure of it. And he honestly doesn't think he could survive if he did something that idiotic and awkward.

Besides, even if he did have the strength to make a confession like that, he wouldn't. And it's not just because he can't seem to find an open moment, much less his breath. It's also because, as much as he hates doing this; as much as he hates knowing that there's no love or affection in Stan's actions . . . he still welcomes them every time. And he's not sure he wants them to stop.

He's decided that it just proves that the statements he's always thought were stupid, like, "it's possible to love someone too much," and, "love is blind," are true. Because he loves Stan too much to deprive him of whatever the hell this thing with Kyle is. And because he's sure it would kill him if anything he did hurt Stan. He really just wants his best friend to be happy.

So when finally, his mouth - now tender and bruised by their fierce kissing - is freed, he doesn't say, "We have to stop doing this, Stan." Instead, he mutters, "Feeling better yet?" His voice sounds foreign, strange; it's laced with exhaustion, frustration, affection, arousal, and a million other emotions he really can't be bothered to identify at the moment.

"Not yet," Stan mutters back, and his voice, too, is strange; it holds a huskiness that Kyle can even now identify easily as lust. Simply lust . . . and nothing more, no matter how strongly he may wish.

"Then do something more productive with your hands," he instructs softly, with barely a hint of impatience lurking in his voice. Stan obeys, moving his hands down to Kyle's waistband, fingers pushing beneath the denim of jeans, beneath the elastic of cotton boxers. . . .

Kyle already knows what's coming next. It's always the same . . . but Kyle doesn't care. Really.

* * *

Author's Notes: For some reason, I think the style of this fic feels more laid-back than the style of most of my other recent ones. Huh. . . . 

Anyway, I'd appreciate it if you'd review this, ha ha.


End file.
